


a standard, or two

by untakenbeepun



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gentle Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, after the bastille incident, also aziraphale and those SHOES, slight angst, sort of transcendental angel sex, they're in love but they're not talking about it, transcendent sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 07:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20271856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untakenbeepun/pseuds/untakenbeepun
Summary: Aziraphale knows that Crowley knows that Aziraphale could have got himself out of the Bastille in less than the time it took to snap his fingers, just as much as Crowley knows that Aziraphale knows that, but for the sake of a millennia of dancing around each other and never quite speaking about it, they’ll keep up the pretence.





	a standard, or two

Aziraphale knows that Crowley knows that Aziraphale could have got himself out of the Bastille in less than the time it took to snap his fingers, just as much as Crowley knows that Aziraphale knows that, but for the sake of a millennia of dancing around each other and never _quite _speaking about it, they’ll keep up the pretence.

Crowley watches him, sprawled needlessly against the window of the prison, just as Aziraphale gives him the once over, eyes raking over the demon’s body.

“You were lucky I was in the area,” Crowley says.

“I suppose I am,” Aziraphale says, and they both know luck had nothing to do with it.

Aziraphale had snapped right back to wearing his full aristocrat garb, cravat, tights, shoes and all, almost as soon as they’d popped back across the channel.

“Really, angel?” Crowley drawls after Aziraphale had disappeared down a dark corner and come back dressed the whole nine yards.

He supposes they’re still pretending that this isn’t another one of those _frivolous miracles _he’d be reprimanded for.

“I _have _standards,” Aziraphale says like Crowley needs to be reminded.

They sit inches away from each other on their coach ride back to London, wheels bumping over rough terrain, horse neighing loudly at the front. Crowley sprawls out as much as he can across the carriage seat, pointedly not looking at Aziraphale as he stares out the countryside, looking for all the world as if he’s deeply fascinated by the drab scenery and not thinking about his leg brushing against the angel’s and the way their fingers are just ever so slightly touching.

“Standards, angel,” Crowley says once they’re back in London, picking up their conversation as if they haven’t just had a three-hour interlude in a bumpy carriage ride, “got you locked up in the Bastille, five minutes away from being discorporated.”

Aziraphale’s tongue passes across his lips. “And how ever could I possibly pay you back for rescuing me?”

“You already bought me lunch,” Crowley says, as if he doesn’t know where this is going, “what else could an angel possibly offer me?” 

“What if I promised to stay out of the way of you fiendish exploits for a week or two?,” Aziraphale says, primly. “In my bookshop. In Soho. On Old Compton Street.”

“Hmm, and what could I possibly do with all of that time without you and your nagging interference?”

“Whatever it is you like. But it doesn’t matter to me, because I’ll be in my bookshop. Alone.”

Aziraphale leaves like he doesn’t know that Crowley is going to follow, and sure enough, when he returns to his bookshop, Crowley is already there waiting for him.

* * *

Crowley has Aziraphale on his back on the bed he doesn’t need, one of Aziraphale’s silver-heeled shoes pressed up against Crowley’s chest. 

“Why do your standards have to include so many layers?” Crowley says as he undoes the buckle, pulling the shoe off.

“All the better for you to take them off,” Aziraphale says, pressing his other heel into Crowley’s chest. 

“I could just—” Crowley wiggles his fingers in the air— “get rid of them.”

“And where would be the fun in that?”

Crowley yanks off the second shoe and tosses it across the room – “careful, those were expensive!” Aziraphale scoffs – and shuts the angel up with a kiss, pushing him back down onto the pillow and pinning his wrists against the bed, fingers sliding together.

It’s been a while since they’ve done this and Crowley takes it slow, kissing the angel deep and languid, his knee pressed up between Aziraphale’s legs, hands still holding his against the bed.

“Do get on with it, won’t you, dear?”

Crowley growls and nips at Aziraphale’s neck.

“Hedonist.” 

“Demon.”

Crowley’s lips slid down Aziraphale’s neck, sucking on the pulse point there, grinning when a moan escapes the angel’s throat, his hips writing underneath Crowley’s weight. His wrists twist under Crowley’s hands, begging for freedom.

Crowley holds him still. “Don’t you know that patience is a virtue?” he says, a grin in his voice.

Still, he moves down Aziraphale’s body, ridding him of his coat and cravat, fingers messing with the buttons of his shirt, pressing hot kisses on every new inch of exposed skin. He slides down, fingers slipping through the waistband of the angel’s breeches, gently pulling them down his legs. He continues his descent, his lips brushing down Aziraphale’s inner thighs.

Aziraphale arches against the bed, letting out a moan that makes Crowley smile against his skin, peppering kisses anywhere that causes the angel’s breath to hitch. 

And then Crowley’s mouth finds its way between Aziraphale’s legs, warm and wet. Aziraphale _mewls, _his hips bucking up against him, hands flying from their spot on the bed to bury into Crowley’s hair.

His fingertips press into the tops of Aziraphale’s thighs grinning with the thought that, if he wanted to, he could set off a thousand nerve endings with just one single thought. And so he does, closing his eyes and focusing all of his energy on Aziraphale until he’s writhing beneath Crowley and gasping his name.

Together they slip into their own world, the kind where it’s not just their physical forms touching but their essences too, just Crowley and Aziraphale on their own plane of existence, twisted together and touching each other, holding on tight until they’re one whole entity, Crowley and Aziraphale, angel and demon, all rolled into one being.

And then Aziraphale’s stomach clenches, his thighs quiver and they both roll back into their physical forms, Aziraphale letting out a long moan and then several heavy breaths. He relaxes into the bed, boneless and gasping for air.

* * *

As far as Crowley knows, this is the only time Aziraphale ever indulges in sleep.

Crowley shifts on his side, watching as the angel breathes evenly, up and down, eyes closed in total peace.

He has to resist the urge to reach out his hand and trace the line of Aziraphale’s jaw, to slip his fingers through his soft hair, to pull him into his arms and just hold him, hold him tight until the rest of the world drifts away.

One day they’ll talk about it. 

One day they’ll meet and they won’t have to pretend that they’re not _something, _they won’t have to make up excuses just to see each other, won’t have to bite their tongues just to stop the worlds, _I love you, I love you, I love you, _tumbling out. 

But for now, Crowley sighs, his eyes on the clock. You can only freeze time for so long.

He presses a soft kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head, and then, as he always does, gets up to leave, sneaking silently out the door to leave his angel alone in the bed.

As the bed shifts, Aziraphale opens one eye and watches him go. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [bee-elzebub](https://bee-ezlebub.tumblr.com/) and on twitter at [@untakenbeepun](https://twitter.com/untakenbeepun)


End file.
